


She Moved Him

by Lunar_Cherokee



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Game of Thrones RPF
Genre: Alliances, Character Death, Desire, Dubious Consent, F/M, Fluff and Smut, House Baelish, House Stark, Inspired by Game of Thrones, Loss of Innocence, Loss of Virginity, Medieval, Mildly Dubious Consent, Politics, Queen in the North, Revenge, Sex, The North remembers, Wedding Night, Winterfell, alayne stone - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-06-05 17:38:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6714511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunar_Cherokee/pseuds/Lunar_Cherokee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a combination of luck and suspiciously convenient circumstances, Lord Baelish becomes Lord of the Vale. With the knights of the Vale at his command, he corresponds with Stannis Baratheon. Sansa Stark can finally return to Winterfell - but with one catch, she must marry and bed Lord Baelish. (this does have an actual solid plot)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The cold breath of winter had descended upon the Eyrie, the castle’s stones had turned to ice, and hillocks of snow had started forming over the lands. It was quite a beautiful sight to behold, Sansa thought, to see caps of white wherever her eyes wandered. The atmosphere within the castle walls, too, was cold – but for an entirely different reason. Young Lord Arryn had fallen gravely ill with dysentery, and the many maesters that had come to evaluate his condition speculated that he had only hours left in this world. Sansa knew it was expected of her to say goodbye, lest the people of the Vale assume his death was her doing. She had to admit – it looked rather suspicious that herself and Lord Baelish had arrived no more than a moon ago, and her aunt Lysa had already passed away, with Lysa’s young son – the Lord of the Vale – soon to follow. 

She felt a strong hand clasp her shoulder, “Lady Sansa, it will do you no good to wait in front of Sweetrobin’s doors in anticipation. You will only make things worse for yourself. Expect nothing but what the maester’s have told you, do not touch the young lord, and tell him everything will soon be right again.” Petyr Baelish’s words filled her mind, and confusion overcame her. “But Lord Baelish, telling him it will all be alright will be lying to him. I- I can’t do that.” Sansa’s cheeks burnt with guilt at the realization she’d be selling false hope to a dead boy. Lord Baelish said nothing, but pushed one of the heavy wooden doors open for her to enter. “Do not touch the boy,” he reminded her.

Robin Arryn did not stir at her presence, and Sansa silently prayed he was asleep, so she would not have to talk to him. What a curious thing to speak to a dying boy, she thought. She wondered if the dead remembered their final moments, when they reached the next life. Robin’s whimpering brought her back to reality. Slowly, she walked towards the bed, where the young lord lay. He was so covered in blankets and furs that it was almost difficult to find him. She wished she hadn’t found him. His small, frail frame was twisted in agony. He clutched a heated pillow to his belly, as though it would save his life. “Robin, how are you feeling?” she asked, her voice strained. He didn’t answer her; he only meekly stretched out his arm, beckoning her forward. Hesitantly, she approached him and sat in the hard wooden stool next to Robin’s bed. His tired, black-rimmed eyes rolled up to look at her, and she could no longer heed Lord Baelish’s warning. 

With both of her hands, she grabbed his bony palm. He was almost as cold as the ice on the walls, she thought. She looked down at her lap, eyes filling with tears at the tragedy of such a young life slipping away. Sure, the pair had never quite gotten along since the day he’d destroyed her snowy replica of Winterfell, but she would never have wished this fate upon anyone. “Lord Arryn, I- I just wanted to come see how you were and tell you that everything will be alr…” Sansa’s words trailed off into the empty air, as her vision met the glazed eyes of little Robin. How hadn’t she noticed he’d stopped breathing? How hadn’t she felt the limpness in his fragile palm? She threw Robin’s dead hand away from her as though it had burnt her flesh. “LORD BAELISH!” she shrieked, “FETCH A MAESTER, NOW!” 

Sansa wasn’t too sure of what was happening from that point, it was all a blur of men in robes surrounding Robin, and so many hands pulling her, pushing her, consoling her. When her senses returned, Lord Baelish had wrapped his arms around her shoulders, whispering sweet words in her ear about how it wasn’t her fault, and how no one could have saved the young Lord. He had tried to feed her some kind of spiced tea, telling her it would calm her… but she did not need to be calmed. What a horror it was to have felt the life leave someone so young. 

Someone must have escorted her to her chambers; she hadn’t been paying much attention. She felt so very weak and pathetic and internally chided herself for allowing the sadness to nip at her heart. She had seen so much death in King’s Landing; surely she should have been accustomed to it by now? But never a child, she reminded herself. She had never witnessed the death of a child. 

Hours later, when the sun had dipped far below the horizon and the sky had turned the colour of ink, her eyes cracked open. She must have fallen asleep. She slowly propped herself up in the bed, and rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. Behind the array of burning candles, a shadow watched her. Before fear had a chance to clasp her heart, he spoke. “Lady Sansa, how are you feeling, sweetling?” “I’m much better my lord. But may I ask what brings you to my chambers? It’s not proper.” She asked, growing nervous in his presence. Sansa had never truly been alone with a man before, at least not a man she feared. There was Tyrion of course, but something about Tyrion was warm and trustworthy, and she had never felt threatened in his presence, as she did now.

“Lady Sansa, how many times must I ask – please call me Petyr.” He mused. “Petyr.” Sansa corrected. “I didn’t have the heart to wake you, but I bring news. As I’m sure you know, now that Lord Arryn has passed, the title of Lord of the Vale falls to – “ “Harrold Hardyng” interjected Sansa. “Very good,” continued Petyr, “My sources, however, inform me that Lord Hardyng was attacked and murdered by a thief last night. All they took was his sword. Peculiar, don’t you think?” Petyr Baelish’s voice had fallen to a dangerous pitch, and a dark smile lingered on his lips. “You didn’t…” whispered Sansa, in shock. She knew she shouldn’t be surprised, it wasn’t the first time Lord Baelish had organized a successful assassination from afar. Lord Baelish’s voice held its dangerous tone, “Need I remind you of what I said some time ago? I will risk everything to get what I want, and I think it’s time to take what I have earned. The people in the Vale agree that, as there is an heir no more, the title and position should fall unto me, due to my marriage – albeit brief – to your aunt Lysa.” Sansa said nothing. He continued, “I would like to make you an offer, my Lady Sansa.”

Sansa froze in her skin. She had a feeling she knew where he was going with all of this, perhaps it was something in Lord Baelish’s voice, or the way he had called her his Lady Sansa. “Lord B- Petyr, what is your offer?” His dark smile grew slowly wider, like cracks forming on a mountain. “My offer is to wed you. I have said to you before that since Joffrey murdered your father, you have been a bystander to tragedy. You’ve gone through several engagements to vile men who would have done vile things to you, and I can offer protection. Should you accept my offer, you have my word that I will do everything within my power, and use every one of my resources to bring you home to Winterfell. It’s time you stopped being a bystander, Sansa.” Sansa felt sickly and cold, as her voice dried up in her throat, and her stomach knotted itself. She was less scared of Lord Baelish, and more so of what she was about to say. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound escaped her lips. She looked to Petyr, with wide eyes, not knowing how to react. Lord Baelish continued, “You have my word, sweetling, that no harm will befall you while you are married to me. I have proven to you, on many an occasion that I truly have your best interests at heart. Joffrey, the vicious little boy who took your father, is dead. Because of me, you are no longer a prisoner or plaything of the Lannisters. Should you wish, I will wait to join you in the marriage bed, and I will give you as much time as you require in making the adjustment. Since the day you lied for me, and saved me from being thrown through the moon door for Lysa’s death, I’ve known that you know what I want. You are what I want, Sansa... While we may not know each other very well, you have an advantage. Everyone wants something, and when you know what a man wants, you know who he is and how to move him. Gods, have you moved me, Sansa.”

Lord Baelish’s honesty had caught Sansa at unawares. It was not often that this devious, intelligent man was honest. Thoughts ran through her head like a swarm of bees, thought upon thought. What would her parents say? What would everyone think? She would have to allow Lord Baelish to bed her, eventually. She would have his children. She heard Queen Margaery’s voice echo in her mind – “far from the worst option, wouldn’t you say?” Lord Baelish was indeed better than her previous options, barring the fact that he was a lowborn descendent of a Braavosi sellsword, but he had power now - a title. He was someone who could bring her Winterfell, and she’d do anything to go home. “I will marry you.” It was all Sansa managed to say, but it was all Lord Baelish needed to hear. 

 

People in the Vale seemed divided on hearing the news of Sansa Stark’s engagement to her uncle by marriage. Half of them did not trust Lord Baelish, or his intentions, and they were wise in their distrust. Half of them, however, were pleased that the rulers of the Vale would be somewhat from the same family. Of course, neither of them was of House Arryn, but Sansa was half Tully, as Lady Lysa had been. In the eyes of the people, the choice was: accept Lord Baelish, and his soon-to-be wife as Lord and Lady of the Vale, or risk the involvement of the Lannisters in the Eyrie’s weakened state. 

It was three days until the wedding, and Sansa had to admit, she enjoyed the attention. Dressmakers, bakers, chefs, decorators, singers, and dancers – no expense was too great for the wedding of the new Lord of the Vale. Sansa was almost always surrounded by a guild of wedding planners, dressmakers and handmaidens. Lord Baelish had chosen a beautiful fabric for Sansa’s wedding gown – it was the same pale grey-blue hue as her eyes. Ever so slightly sheer, shimmering and light as air, Sansa could not have made a better choice herself. 

The days raced by, as the castle was turned into something out of a fairytale. Lord Baelish had taken a very non-traditional route, as there was no trace of house banners anywhere in the castle. Only glittering curtains of silvery organza, and giant candelabras of silver and dragon glass. Previously, Sansa had thought dragon glass was only used to make weapons, especially considering its rarity. Lord Baelish however had informed her that once upon a time, dragon glass had been fairly common. It was no wonder that the silversmith had used it in a candelabrum. The glass appeared to come to life whenever the candles were lit, glowing the most beautiful, hypnotic, opalescent white Sansa had ever seen. 

For the few days leading up to the ceremony, the presence of Lord Baelish was scarce. She occasionally caught a glimpse of the man around corners of the castle corridors, or outside in the snow. He was always alone, and always seemed to be wholly lost in his own thoughts – and she could not find the boldness within herself to visit him. The only time they spoke was when Lord Baelish briefly visited her chambers every evening, to kiss her gently adieu for the night. 

The morning of the wedding had arrived. It was pitch dark outside due to the newly arrived winter, and Sansa soaked for what felt like hours in her steaming bath, infused with goats’ milk to soften her skin, and with rose oils to perfume her body. She had woken up with a sense of dread brewing in her belly – she did not trust Petyr Baelish, or his intentions. However, the fragranced bath had relaxed her mind and lifted her spirits ever so slightly. She mentally counted the positive points of their union. First and foremost, she would no longer have to be anywhere near the Lannisters. Petyr, despite his many sins and flaws, would definitely protect her. Because he truly cared for wellbeing, he would respect her and always be kind. Sansa had missed kindness more than she could possibly say, and Lord Baelish had provided it in excess. Then, there was the point of Winterfell. She had so desperately wanted to return home, and now, having the knights of the Vale at Petyr’s command, Sansa had heard whisperings of Lord Baelish’s correspondence with Stannis Baratheon. He’s really doing it – she thought – he’s really planning on taking Winterfell. Her heart fluttered at the thought of the annihilation of the Boltons, who were traitors to her family.

Now at peace with her marriage, Sansa diligently washed every inch of her body, and washed the grime and snow from her hair. She had every intention of consummating her marriage this night, but she’d save that surprise for her husband-to-be. Admittedly, she was not at all excited for the bedding, but she knew it was her duty. She wanted Winterfell far too much to risk her marriage being annulled – that would ruin everything. Despite her apprehension, in a sense she was glad it would be Petyr to take her in the marriage bed – she recognized she held a certain power over him, and suspected that power would grow after he’d taken what he wanted. Cersei had once told her that a woman’s greatest weapon lay between her legs, and Sansa intended to use this weapon to her advantage. 

She slowly dried herself in front of the crackling fireplace, careful not to let the smell of burning firewood taint her skin. Her handmaidens surrounded her, rubbing her body with rose oils and toweling her hair. As she sat in her slip and her nightgown, the handmaidens fashioned her hair into a beautiful cascade of soft curls and braids. Auburn curls fell down her back like a fiery waterfall, and intricate braids fashioned a crown around her head. “My lady,” called one of the handmaidens that had only just entered her chambers, “Lord Baelish has presented you with gifts he hopes you will wear today. Some of them arrived only this morning.” Sansa’s mouth dropped open in surprise at Petyr’s generosity as her eyes fell on the collection of beautifully decorated bags and chests that now littered her bed. Somewhere, at the back of her mind, she wondered if this was only another part of Lord Baelish’s mind games, but she pushed the thought to the back of her mind. “This is called cosmetics, my lady”, said the woman as she handed Sansa the smallest of the intricately decorated boxes. “It is a fine powder meant for the eyes and cheeks, made from the finest pearls in Braavos.” The fine powder glittered gently in the candle light, reminding her of the beautiful lustre of fallen snow. She dipped the tip of her finger into the powder, and it clung to her skin like water. She traced it over her eyelids, and gently over her cheekbones and admired her reflection in the mirror. She looked like some beautiful enchanted creature, as though the very stars in the night sky danced atop her eyes. Such strange powder had never been seen in the North before, nor in King’s Landing, but Sansa enjoyed its novelty.

The woman drew a second, larger box from the pile. Inside the box, lay a dainty silver locket with the Stark’s wolf sigil engraved on its front. Sansa’s heart danced in her chest, as she slipped the delicate chain over her head. Sansa did not remember ever feeling so grateful for anything in her life. Petyr had bought many gifts – new dresses from Lys and Qarth, dainty earrings of a strange stone, which held the most delicate shade of blue - apparently stone was only newly discovered by explorers and was named Aquamarine due to its resemblance to the ocean. Sansa carefully examined the earrings and noted how the stone matched the shade of her eyes. She decided she’d do as Lord Baelish had wanted, and wear them for the ceremony – not because he’d wanted her to, but because they made her feel like a queen. 

Sansa’s finished dress lay on her bed, the soft fabric glittering in the candlelight. The dress fit her form perfectly and greatly resembled something she thought Lady Margaery Tyrell would wear. The dress was fitted until her waist, where the skirt of the dress cascaded out, like a blossoming rose. The dress had no sleeves, but a soft, flowing cap of sheer organza over her shoulders. The dress dipped low, to the small of her back, exposing her delicate pale skin, and her locket hung only just out of view, as it sat between her breasts – her little secret. She wore blue silk slippers, and a crown of winter roses around her head – blue as frost. Her handmaidens told her that Lord Baelish had fashioned the rose-crown himself, only to please the Lady Sansa, and Sansa was indeed pleased. Though it was winter outside, the castle was warm as a summer’s day, and she felt no discomfort in her somewhat immodest dress. She examined herself in the mirror, from head to toe – never before had she looked more like a Lady of the North, and she loved it that way. Moreover, she looked much older than sixteen. 

Sansa hovered outside the ceremony hall for a few seconds, taking deep breaths in a failed attempt to still her nerves. She was incredibly nervous, but she was no longer fearful. Although she still did not truly trust Lord Baelish, she was convinced that a man who had showed her such kindness and generosity would never harm her, at least not if he could help it. Lord Royce, who it seemed had been waiting for her, carefully approached Sansa. “I may not be your father, Sansa, but I did grow up with him. I may not like Lord Baelish, but from what I can see, it is indeed a clever match. I believe your father, and your mother, would be proud of how you have risen. May I give you away at the alter, my lady?” Sansa was grateful for Lord Royce’s presence. She said nothing, but locked her arm in his, and gestured for the guards to open the doors, so the ceremony may begin.

The look of pure awe on Petyr Baelish’s face as Sansa glided down the aisle made Sansa’s heart sing in her chest. Today, she felt like the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms. The ceremony went much faster than Sansa had anticipated, and before she could really comprehend what was happening, their vows had been said, and Lord Baelish’s emerald cloak hung over her shoulders. She was not unhappy, but her stomach was still in knots with nervousness, for she knew what was soon to come. The newly married pair walked hand in hand into the feast hall, which drew Sansa out of her head once more. 

Yards and yards of silver organza and taffeta lined the castle ceiling and walls, dragon glass candelabras guided them to their seats, and winter roses lay atop every table, making the hall look like it was fit for an Ice Queen. “Sansa, I was not able to tell you during the ceremony, but you look breathtaking.” Lord Baelish whispered in her ear. Sansa looked up at him and smiled weakly, she was too nervous for anything – far too nervous to eat. As if he’d read her mind, Petyr leaned over to her once more “My lady, as I promised – there is no need to share your bed on this night, you have all the time you need.” “I know, thank you” was all Sansa could muster, as she nibbled lightly on a lemon cake. Although Lord Baelish’s kindness was greatly appreciated, she did not want to risk her new marriage falling apart. It was too easy for a Lannister to suddenly appear and murder her new husband for his treason. At least, if she allowed him to bed her, the marriage could not be annulled and she would not be married off to someone else, someone likely to be vile and cruel if the Lannisters had any say in the matter.

Lord Baelish had arranged that there be no bedding ceremony, to preserve Sansa’s decency. He took his bride’s hand and led her to their new chambers. “I hope you don’t mind, but I must at least sleep in your bed tonight to give our guests the illusion that we’ve consummated this union.” Sansa looked up at Petyr Baelish and smiled, a true warm smile, “I would not have it another way, Lord Baelish.” “Petyr,” he corrected softly. The room, too, was decorated with many dragon glass candelabras, and winter roses littered the chamber’s windowsills. The rugs on the floor were thick and white as snow, and the fireplace roared with a magnificent fire that lit up the room like day. Without saying a word of her intentions, Sansa slipped out of her dress, which she hung over the back of a nearby chair, and began removing her jewellery. It wasn’t until she had undone her corset that Lord Baelish had started to catch on. “Sansa Stark, are you sure you want this?” He gently purred. “Sansa Baelish,” she corrected coyly. She drew her slip over her head, and dropped it to the ground, maintaining eye contact with Petyr. Of course, he wasn’t able to hold her gaze very long, as his green-grey eyes drank up the image of her naked body.

He slowly approached her, as though she were a timid creature he was afraid would flee. Sansa’s eyes grew wide as he approached, as her nerves started to take hold once more. Lord Baelish gently scooped Sansa up, and lay her on their bed. Sansa decided she enjoyed the feeling of his arms around her, but she would never admit this to anyone. He was much stronger than he appeared. Sansa had started feeling self-conscious at her nudity, and meekly attempted to cover her breasts with her hands. Lord Baelish sat down beside her and ever so slowly brought his face to hers. He placed his hand gently below her chin, and lifted her lips to his. Each move was slow and careful, enough so that Sansa felt safe, and less afraid of what was to come. His lips started to move against hers with only the slightest murmur of desperation. Something in him seemed strained. He broke away from her and backed against the wall, looking wider eyed than even Sansa. “Sansa, I don’t know if I can. You are so young, and while I have indeed wanted this as long as I can remember, I cannot defile you.” Petyr could not bring himself to look directly at Sansa, rather at her discarded wedding gown. He pressed his lips together in anticipation of her reply, looking as though he was preparing himself for physical pain. 

She looked at her husband, truly looked at him. She had never seen him look so vulnerable. He was always plotting and scheming, and playing with people as though they were pawns in a chess match. He was younger than she had initially assumed. He had almost no lines on his face; the only telltale sign of aging was his salt and pepper hair. Sansa beckoned him forward, “I want to lie with you tonight,” she whispered. It seemed that was all he needed to hear. He approached her again, even more careful than before. He allowed Sansa to take the lead, and only moved forward when he knew she wanted him to do so. His kisses grew deeper and more powerful as Sansa removed his shirt with shaking hands. “I will never hurt you.” He whispered as he broke from the kiss. Sansa traced the scar on Petyr’s chest ever so gently beneath her fingertips as he leaned in toward her. He kissed each breast as though he worshipped them, and ever so lightly down to her navel. As light as a feather, he placed his hand on the inside of her thigh, and brushed it lightly along, until he reached the sacred place between her legs. 

Looking at Sansa as though he sought permission, he brushed his fingers over her folds, and Sansa shivered in anticipation. He leaned in to kiss her once more, as he moved his finger in gentle spirals over her clit, sending waves of warm pleasure throughout her body. The kiss deepened, and Sansa began to taste Petyr’s desire on his lips. He dipped his finger inside her, the combination of pleasure and the coldness of his silver ring against her lips made her gasp in Petyr’s mouth. As though this ignited something inside him, his entire demeanor changed; he was no longer handling a fragile object, he was a man about to fuck the woman he’d desired for so long. He studied her face, a predatory look in his eyes, as he expertly moved his fingers in and out of her, whilst rubbing her clit. 

Sansa felt an odd warmth spread like wildfire, from between her legs, throughout her body as waves of pleasure rolled through her. Her thighs quivered with a feral need that she’d never before experienced. Breath caught in her throat and her muscles tensed, she knew she was close – close to something with which she was unfamiliar. She felt like she might pass out, or cry out as the wave of pleasure inside her grew, and grew. Lord Baelish, however, stayed his hands right before her climax, and the wave inside her slowly subsided, leaving every nerve in her body on edge. 

Petyr smiled devilishly at the colour that now decorated Sansa’s cheeks. Sansa could feel his bulging manhood press against her belly. As he kissed her, she ran her hands along his body, exploring every inch of him. She stroked his manhood through his breeches, letting him know of her desire. He groaned into her mouth, and this pleased her. He slipped off his breeches, and placed himself at her entrance, but he did not move, as he continued kissing her, gently biting her bottom lip, brushing kisses down her neck. Her breasts were so round and inviting, and Petyr couldn’t help but run his hands over them and squeeze. “Are you ready, my lady?” he purred into her neck. “Yes,” she breathed. “Good, I’m going to fuck you now.” 

She locked her arms around his shoulders, pressing her fingers into his shoulder blades, and pulling him closer so they were skin-on-skin. He parted Sansa’s legs ever so gently wider, and pressed into her, burying his face in her neck. She could feel warm pressure at her entrance, and liquid heat seeped between her legs. Noting how wet his new bride had become, he drew his fingers to her entrance, “do you know why your cunt is wet, Sansa?” he growled. “It means you want my cock,” he whispered before she had a chance to answer him. With short, quick thrusts, he made his way inside her, until her maidenhead broke. Then with one sharp thrust he filled her. He groaned, as her walls held his manhood in a vice like grip, the pleasure was almost too much for him to maintain his composure. Sansa gasped in pain and shock, it stung where her maidenhead had been torn, and she felt stretched to a point she was not sure she could handle. Her walls ached with his size, and the pain was visible on her face. Lord Baelish’s manhood was very large, pinning her to their bed – she couldn’t move. Slightly shaking, Petyr began slowly thrusting in and out of her, and with each thrust, Sansa felt less pain and more pleasure. The ache of fullness turned into a pleasant sensation, leaving her feeling fulfilled. He started thrusting harder into her, as deep as he could go, and with each thrust a moan escaped her lips. 

As if her voice was the validation he’d been seeking, he thrust harder and harder, gaining pace. He pulled Sansa closer to his body, and she could feel his groin against her clit as she wrapped her legs around his hips. Something was overcoming her, that same wave as before only much stronger, and she wasn’t sure what to do. She writhed beneath Lord Baelish, and clawed at his back, unable to escape the giant wave of pleasure that was building between her legs. Her back arched, and she threw her head back, as the wave crashed over her, causing her to cry out and shake. Her walls tensing around him caught him by surprise, “fuck! So fucking tight” he growled through his teeth, as he began thrusting with even more force than before. Petyr did not slow down, he grinded his pelvis against hers, thrusting so deep Sansa wasn’t sure how he could fit. His thrusts became more and more primal, sharper, harder, and wilder until he finally reached his quivering climax. A low moan escaped his throat, as he filled her to the brim with his seed. Petyr locked his lips with Sansa once more, thrusting gently as the last of his seed spilled into her. 

Even once Lord Baelish was no longer inside her, she felt an electric sensation between her legs, which spread up to her womb. Sansa could not recall a time in her life where she felt more satisfied, or more at peace, and nestled her face into her husband’s chest as sleep caught her.


	2. Unraveled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa recognises a new power within herself - one she can use to undo the whole of Westeros

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, if you're interested in seeing the story continue, please kudos/bookmark/comment :) It's my first fanfic, so apologies for any errors. Thanks so much! [I apologise for how short this chapter is, but we're getting to the good stuff really soon, and this needed to happen first]

Sansa awoke whilst the sky was still dark, with her heart hammering against her ribcage and her forehead beaded with sweat. She sat up in her bed, gasping for breath as though she’d been drowning. The linens clung to her skin, and the air around her was hot and heavy. As she sat up, she felt a sharp sting in her womanhood, and remembered everything that had happened. It all felt like a dream to Sansa, and she wasn’t sure whether or not it was a good one. Tears burned her eyes, and she stifled sobs; she felt like she’d betrayed her family with this marriage. Petyr had been so kind to her, and had given her the best gift anyone ever had – freedom. When he’d offered to wed her, she’d reacted impulsively. She’d allowed her nagging desire to go home get the best of her. 

“Sansa”

Sansa turned her head to look at Lord Baelish, ready to explain her tears. She quickly summoned up a myriad of excuses in her mind, not wanting to appear weak. What she saw caught her off-guard. Petyr Baelish lay fast asleep, gently sighing her name. A small, innocent, sleep-laden smile hung on his lips, and his hand had wandered over to cover her own. Here slept a man who could outwit the majority of Westeros combined, ever ready to play his games and always thirsty for power. Baelish played the game of thrones better than anyone Sansa had ever met - better than Margaery Tyrell even. How did a man born from nothing rise to such heights? He owned land – Harrenhal, and now the Vale. He had a title. He did not have old blood, but Sansa had no doubt he would leave a greater legacy than some of the oldest families in the Seven Kingdoms. He got the Vale through lies and murder, she reminded herself, as anger bubbled in her veins. He didn’t want her; he wanted the Iron Throne. He had used her, this marriage, to stake his claim in the North. This whole arrangement hadn’t been for her at all – it’d been for him - to elevate his own position. Sansa felt her anger bubble and boil beneath her skin, as it slowly spread throughout her body. Still, whether his intentions had been pure or not, he had treated her well, she reminded herself. He’d organized what she could only describe as a dream wedding, fit for a Queen. Suddenly, the realization dawned on her – if Lord Baelish wanted to be king, she’d be his queen by marriage. She knew she held firm power over Lord Baelish, likely thanks to his obsession with her mother. She’d play him like he played everyone else, she decided. She’d play good, obedient wife, she’d lay with him, she’d give him children, but when the time came – if he crossed her path, she’d destroy him. 

Sansa had paid close attention to everything Lord Baelish had taught her through their journey from King’s Landing, to the Eyrie, and in her brief time as Alayne Stone. She’d learned how to read people, and judge them accordingly. She’d learned how to lie, and how to charm. She knew she could manipulate Petyr into giving her anything she desired, and if he denied her, she could just lie with him and she could corner him in his weakened state. She’d been a sweet, innocent girl for so long that she knew the act well – she could use feigned innocence to her advantage. 

“Sansa”

Petyr sighed again, and she turned to face him once more. A single tear ran down his cheek. Something about the sight softened her heart and dimmed her rage. His brow was furrowed and his hand limply reached for something only his dreams knew. His breathing had become frantic, and sweat started to bead on his brow. 

“Don’t hurt her, please… Sansa…”

Tears now streamed down Petyr’s sleeping face like rainfall. The desperation in his voice tugged at her heartstrings, and lulled her rage into calm nothingness. How could such a man ever harm her? Something in her wanted to reach out and wake him; show him that she was still there – that she was unharmed – but Petyr still felt like a stranger to her. Sansa had never been much good at consoling people, she always felt stiff and awkward. Petyr whimpered again and mumbled something incoherent, and Sansa’s hesitancy to console him promptly evaporated. She carefully slipped back beneath the covers and wriggled her way beneath Petyr’s arm, as she laid her auburn head on his chest. Perhaps it was from sheer exhaustion, or perhaps it was because of Lord Baelish’s endearing warmth as he wrapped his arms around her, but sleep soon found Sansa once again. 

Sansa awoke as swords of sunlight pierced the night’s darkness. Warm radials kissed her skin, and drew her from her slumber. Lord Baelish’s arm was still firmly locked around her waist – she knew she should probably find it endearing and sweet but, in all honesty, Sansa felt stiff and uncomfortable in his arms. His touch was alien to her, unfamiliar and unwelcome. It was a shame, though, as Petyr had so readily unraveled before her, and she could not return his affections; at least not yet. She bent her head to kiss his brow, as a dutiful wife should. Petyr’s eye fluttered open, and he unwound his arm from around Sansa. Sansa pushed herself up against the headboard, she was glad the ache from her wedding night had mostly gone from between her legs. “How did you sleep, my lord?” She asked sweetly. Petyr just looked at her, his eyebrow cocked and an amused smile lingering on his lips. “I’m sorry - Petyr,” Sansa corrected with a smile. 

“I slept just fine, my lady” Petyr lightly mocked, “and how did you sleep?” Sansa ignored his inquiry, and pressed on “What did you dream about last night?” “I- I can’t remember. I’m not one to take note of my dreams.” By the darkening of his eyes, and the furrowing of his brow, Sansa could see he wasn’t being entirely honest with her. Was it that bad? That embarrassing? She thought to herself, curiosity growing in her belly. Sansa shot him a suspicious glance. “I dreamed the Lannisters had found us, here in the Eyrie, whilst we slept. That their men accused you, of all people, of Joffrey’s murder. They told me they were going to… do horrible things to you as they dragged you out from our bed. I tried to help you, but it was fruitless – you were gone, and there was nothing I could do to save you from the Lannisters’ wrath.” 

“The Lannisters have already done horrible things to me, there’s not much more for them to add to their list.” Answered Sansa darkly. She knew she should have been more sympathetic to Lord Baelish’s confession, but she was so overcome with sorrow and rage, that she had no place in her heart for such a feeling. “I’m sorry,” said Sansa softly, before Petyr could reply, “I should have been kinder to you – I suppose I’m still haunted by them; the Lannisters,” she finished. Petyr’s face was lined in grief as he looked upon his new bride in her suffering. “What did they do to you, Sansa? I know they had your family murdered, and married you to the imp, but your eyes tell me there’s something more to their torment.”  
“Something more to their torment.” Mirrored Sansa. “Joffrey had me beaten many, many times. He made me look at my father’s head on a pike, after his execution. He left me alone with three men who wanted to rape me – and he didn’t care, it was Lord Tyrion who stopped him. He threatened to rape me himself. He wanted to serve me my brother’s head on a platter at my own wedding. The list is long, and tedious to recall my lord.” Sansa stared blankly at her lap, eyes icing over in an attempt to hide her pain. 

Petyr had been aware the Lannisters were bloodthirsty demons with no honor, but he’d underestimated their cruelty towards the little bird. Sansa parted her lips to speak again, “In all honesty, Petyr, I was so happy the day Joffrey was killed. I was happy that Lady Margaery didn’t have to marry a monster, that Cersei would suffer in the same way she’d caused my suffering, that one less vicious little boy existed in the world. I was grateful that never again would I have to swear loyalty to him, or put up with his beatings and his threats. His death was a mercy. He deserved far more pain.” Sansa’s voice was a dark whisper. He face was colder than the winter snow, and her eyes had turned to steel. “He’s gone now, he can never hurt you again.” Said Petyr Baelish cautiously, not wanting to stir Sansa’s trauma anymore. 

Sansa, still dark with hate and vengefulness, brought her lips to her husband’s. She was aggressive in her need – her lips pressed against his with anger and urgency, and her tongue danced around his menacingly, like a cobra in battle. She caught his bottom lip in her teeth, and a low moan escaped his throat. He was so easy to undo, she thought. Wasting no time, without hesitation, she ripped Petyr’s nightshirt from his body. Her hands roamed his body hungrily, her fingernails gently scratching over his scar. He’s hard, she thought, perfect. She lunged for him and straddled his hips, pinning him to the bed. Petyr did not quite comprehend what was happening, or where this all came from – but he was not about to complain. Sansa moved with a certainty that was uncommon for a girl who was a maid, only hours ago. He knew she had definitely been a maid, as he’d felt her maidenhead resist against the tip of his cock, and the evidence still decorated the linens. Sansa rolled her hips back and forth, with feline grace, somehow knowing exactly what she was doing. It was not, however, Sansa behaving in this way. Sansa had retreated into the far depths of her mind – this was someone else entirely. Someone who was powerful, someone strong, and someone who was set to undo the whole of Westeros. Petyr’s cock twitched beneath his breeches in anticipation. His entire body was alight, and desire coursed through his veins.

Grabbing Sansa’s small waist, and in one expert motion, she was now beneath him, with his manhood waiting at her entrance. Petyr drew his hand to her cunt and rubbed her clit hungrily, teasing her. Sansa’s own hunger grew even stronger, “Now,” she growled. Petyr’s eyes darkened in a storm of lust, and a devilish smile threatened at the corner of his mouth. He was both taken aback, and flattered at her desperation. Without warning, he plunged himself harshly into her. She cried out in both ecstasy and pain, as he hammered into her over and over again. With each powerful thrust, she felt herself slide up and down beneath him. Her inner walls ached and stung at the intrusion, but a fire had been lit in her belly – far more powerful than wildfire. Her nails instinctively clawed at the skin on his back, but Petyr was relentless. He, too, was in utter ecstasy. She was just as tight and wet as on their wedding night – her walls resisted him, unforgivingly gripping his cock. He grabbed her legs on either side of him, below her knee, and hoisted them onto his shoulders. Sansa was bent in a jackknife as Lord Baelish pounded into her. He repositioned himself, and pressed her thighs even closer to her chest. With this new position, Sansa found herself wanting to black out from pure pleasure. Petyr Baelish’s length filled her even more than the night before, as his tip brushed the entrance to her womb. She cried out, digging her claws into his hips as she reached her climax, and then another, and then another – each peak making her head feel lighter and lighter. With a low growl, he grabbed her hips and pressed himself as far into her as he would go, the tip of him now pressed painfully against the entrance to her womb, as he filled her once more with his seed. 

He rolled off of her, a sweaty, unraveled mess. He, too, felt faint. As Sansa slipped down from her high, modesty returned to her once more. Her cheeks glowed, and her gaze shifted from her husband. “Sansa Stark, you are a strange woman,” he laughed, “you do that, and then all of a sudden you remember propriety? There is no need for such a thing as propriety in our bedroom, my dear little wife.” “Sansa Baelish,” she corrected lightly – and with that, Petyr Baelish sunk even further under her spell.


	3. Chapter 3

All week, Sansa had been working on her new dress. She’d decided her body was her weapon, and it was time she used it properly. Her dress was made of thick emerald velvet, made to fit her like a glove. The sleeves were long and fitted, the edges embroidered in blinding silver, and the bodice hugged her womanly curves and emphasized her bosom. The neckline of the dress was definitely low enough to raise eyebrows, including those of Petyr Baelish himself.

Sansa sauntered into Petyr’s study, rolling her hips as she walked towards him. Petyr’s jaw fell open, and his eyebrows shot up as he looked up at the sound of his bride’s footsteps. He said nothing as she slowly leaned over the front of his desk, lifting his chin with her index finger, and brought her lips down on his. She kissed him with more rough passion than should have been expressed by a highborn lady. Her teeth grazed his bottom lip, and she pulled back elusively as Petyr began leaning into her. His eyes followed her graceful form as she pensively paced the circumference of his study, her hands playing coyly with a lock of her auburn hair. She turned and glanced at him over her shoulder, a small smile playing on her lips. Lord Baelish leaned back in his chair, and clasped his hands over his lap, eyebrows raised quizzically. “My lady, is there something you wish –“ he started, but he was cut off as Sansa raised her index finger at him, signaling her want of his silence. 

“You’ve got what you want.” She purred, her voice low and hoarse. “And now, surely it’s only fair that I should get what I want?” She turned to face him, her eyes dark with what Petyr perceived as desire. She was nothing short of intoxicating – he was a man who got what he wanted through sharp wit and intellect – his house motto was, after all, “Knowledge is Power.” Yet, here he was – his head spinning with nothing but thoughts of his physical desires. Oh, how he desired Sansa. “What is it you want?” He mused, the corners of his thin mouth curling upwards in a semi-challenging smile. “Do you know me, Lord Baelish?” Sansa ignored his question, and posed her own – it was now to be a game of wits, and she knew she had the upper hand. Petyr, although a complicated man, was easy to decipher once you knew his desires; once you knew what made him tick. “Lady Sansa, are you referring to what I said about knowing a man? You are most definitely not a man.” Petyr purred. “Yet you are.” Shot Sansa back at him. “A man, a powerful man – you’re a man with sharp wit and a cunning mind. You’re a man who rose above many highborn in rank purely because of your brilliance.” She continued, as she saw his eyes soften at her flattery, “Such a man should surely know what a simple woman as I would want.” Sansa’s full Cupid’s bow mouth was pulled into a sly half-smile, as she continued to challenge Petyr. He liked playing games, and she decided she liked playing them too; she liked playing him too. 

“On the assumption that you were, indeed, a simple woman – a man such as I surely would know. However, as it stands – you are far less simple than meet’s the eye, Lady Sansa.” His face was now cracked in a broad grin, obviously impressed with his wife’s antics. “However, as much of a beautifully complex creature as you may be, I may have an inkling as to what you want.” Sansa stepped towards him, as he continued. “I have made correspondence with Stannis Baratheon, and a few houses in the North – The Umbers, House Reed, House Manderly, House Glover. I also intend to send a raven to your uncle, Brynden Tully, The Black Fish. I think it’s time Winterfell was seized from the Boltons – don’t y-“ before Petyr could finish, Sansa had launched herself at him with the grace of a feline, and the determination of a wolf. Her lips crashed down on his as she grabbed Lord Baelish by the collar. Her kiss deepened, and a low moan escaped her throat. As though this was his cue, he pulled her towards him and set her on the top of his writing desk. She fumbled desperately with the laces on his breeches as he hiked her dress up over her hips. 

His cock sprang free of its constraints, and cut the air before him like a dagger. In all truth, Sansa’s womanhood was still aching from their previous two liaisons, but she needed Winterfell as Petyr needed her. Wrapping her fine fingers around his shaft, she placed him at her wet entrance, her legs hooking around his narrow hips. She lowered herself across his desk, her hair hanging off the edge. Petyr’s hands worked over her flat stomach, up towards her now-exposed breasts. He thrust into her sharply. A strangled cry of both pain and pleasure escaped her throat. She was in ecstasy. He thrust in and out of her, never losing his intensity, his hands fixed firmly around her small waist, and his eyes fixed on her pale arched neck. He rocked his groin against her mound, expertly rubbing against her clit in just the right way. White-hot tongues of flaming pleasure shot through her as she arched up in euphoria. Petyr came undone inside her, quivering and panting as though the life had been sucked from him. A fine mist of sweat hung on his brow, and Sansa knew she would, indeed, get what she wanted.


	4. Chapter 4

Stannis Baratheon had showed up unexpectedly at the Eyrie, making Sansa uncomfortable with his presence. She realised Stannis was the key to winning back the North, but Cersei’s words from all that time ago still haunted her mind. When the time came for war, would Cersei’s words ring true? Would innocent women have their virtue stolen by brutish men with violent temperaments? Would she be raped? As she looked upon Stannis’ stern but pleasant face, she tried to imagine such a man allowing the atrocities Cersei had predicted. Cersei had been so afraid of the potential sacking, that she had fled with young Tommen, ready to poison him before Stannis’ men could unleash the same horror unto her, as the Lannister men had done to Elia Martell all that time ago. Surely her Lord Baelish would ensure her protection, but what about the other women? With a pang in her heart, Sansa realised the sad truth of the world in which she lived. Women were nothing, without a noble cloak over their shoulders and a fertile womb from which to obediently birth heirs for her husband. Suddenly, nausea overcame her. As Petyr Baelish and Stannis Baratheon spoke political to-and-fro’s, Sansa quietly fled the chamber and made for a chamber pot. She did not get so far, and had to throw her crimson head out one of the castle windows so she could wretch out the contents of her stomach. 

The handmaidens had found her, and insisted she see a maester, but Sansa felt she had no need of the services of a maester, and attributed her sudden illness to cheese she had consumed that morning, that was possibly a little more aged than it safely should have been. Strangely, though, she did not feel her appetite return to her the rest of the day. The kitchen servants had brought up spiced teas, wines and cakes – and yet Sansa felt no inclination to stomach any of it. With each of the kitchen servant’s failed attempts, she witnessed the women scurry off hurriedly – no doubt to inform her overly cautious husband of her ailment. Not more than a few heartbeats later, did Petyr Baelish appear in the doorway of her chambers. “My Lady, you really must eat. You hardly had any appetite for breakfast, only nibbling on some bread and cheese. Perhaps a dish made more to your own tastes, developed in the Capitol? Pigeon pie? Roasted fowl? Perhaps some honey cakes, seeing as your favourites no longer seem to hold your favour?” Petyr was visibly concerned for Sansa, yet still smiled playfully at her. With a sigh, Sansa decided to humour her husband. “Perhaps some pigeon pie for tonight’s dinner?” Petyr smiled, and disappeared as suddenly as he had arrived, no doubt to continue his negotiations with the potential King of the Seven Kingdoms. For some peculiar reason, Sansa was uncomfortable with this thought. She had grown somewhat attached to Petyr Baelish throughout these past few months, despite her previous reservations regarding his agenda. While she did not love Petyr Baelish as he loved her, she was very good at pretending to reciprocate. In all honesty, the pretence hadn’t been too difficult, as Sansa had developed feelings of care and warmth for her husband. Her mother had once told her that love could grow, with time. 

Sansa called for a handmaiden to help her dress for supper. He’d chosen a lilac dress, which emphasised the crimson of her hair, and the creamy pallor of her skin. The handmaiden fussed relentlessly over Sansa, puffing out Sansa’s skirts, and drawing the strings of her corset so tight, Sansa was sure her bones might break. Even as she’d asked the handmaiden to loosen the corset, she felt tenderness in her bosom against the stiff fabric of her bodice. Sansa turned to face the woman, “why do you pull my corset so tight around my body?” She queried. The woman’s mousy brown eyebrows furrowed in confusion – “I-I’m sorry my Lady, but this is how your corset has always been done. I pull the strings until I see the familiar curve of your waist – no more. Forgive me, my Lady, for asking – but have you been indulging on the many delicacies offered here, in the Eyrie? Your waist has not broadened in any noticeable manner, but it is not uncommon to gain a tiny bit more meat on your bones when you enjoy meals.” Sansa’s mouth gaped open, completely unsure of what to say. She hadn’t indulged in the Vale’s cuisine at all since her arrival, save for a small number of lemon cakes every other week. She had eaten less than she’d eaten during her stay in the capitol, even. The handmaiden opened her mouth once more, “Or perhaps my Lady’s belly has begun swelling with a babe. Your appetite has all but vanished, and this morning’s sickness may indicate more than simply a slab of too-old cheese. Shall I fetch a maester, Miss?”

The woman did not wait for Sansa to reply before trotting off, and appearing shortly with the maester. Sansa did not ask his name – she was too caught up in her thoughts to recall such courtesies. She was young, yet women three years her junior had successfully bore children. Could she really be with child? “My Lady Baelish,” began the unnamed maester, “how long has it been since your marriage was consummated?” “Three moons, give or take a few days,” replied Sansa, “Why?” The maester ignored her question and continued – “and how long has it been since your last moon’s blood?” Sansa’s face drained of colour, and she suddenly felt the need to sit down. “It has been a few days short of three moons,” whispered Sansa, as the realisation dawned on her. She did not know how quickly women became with child. For some reason that escaped Sansa, she had been under the impression that children usually came later. However, she did have Tully blood, she reminded herself, and Tully women were known for their fertility and success at bearing children. Her aunt, Lysa, likely would have bore more children herself had she hated her husband less. The maester pricked the tip of her finger with a small dagger, and pressed the drop of blood into a slip of fabric. He dropped the bloodstained fabric into a silver chalice filled with clear liquid. The liquid began to turn a slight shade of yellow, and the maester chuckled to himself. “My Lady, it is certain that you are with child. Rejoice! It is a blessing to be a mother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for another short chapter, but unfortunately these sorts of things are a necessary evil. I sincerely hope you enjoy, regardless! If you like this story and want to keep reading, please kudos/bookmark, or if you have some love to give or some ideas/critique, please please comment! Thank you so much to those lovely people who have done so already! I'll post again in about a week. Much love!


	5. Chapter 5

It had been a fortnight since Sansa had discovered her condition, yet she had not told a soul. She’d even gone so far as to threaten the life of the Maester, should he tell anyone in the Vale before she was ready. She still hadn’t quite wrapped her head around the idea of being a mother. Would Petyr be happy? Would he love the child? Sansa was still young, and Joffrey had murdered her Septa before she’d finished education. She understood how the wedding night went – and hers had gone rather well, considering she’d expected nothing but pain and discomfort, but apart from that, there was little she’d been taught. Sansa had, of course, learned many new things through her interactions with Petyr. He longed for her body like a man in the desert longs for water. They had lain together every night since the wedding – often to Sansa’s detriment. She would often be tender and sore, but oddly it made her enjoy Petyr’s cock all the more – she could feel everything, every inch of him, and she liked the reminder of their nights together. A child, though, was another sort of reminder altogether. Thankfully, she had not started to show – she knew Petyr would throw the Maester through the moon door if he’d discovered her pregnancy on his own. Sansa’s mind was too full of doubt and fear to feel the happiness she knew she should be feeling – but perhaps Petyr could reassure her as he had done so many times in the past. 

It was late in the evening, and the sky had already turned an inky blue, but Sansa’s sickness demanded fresh air – she decided a walk in the courtyard would be the perfect way to steel her nerves so she could tell her husband about his growing child. The frozen blades of grass and twigs crunched beneath her boots, and the hem of her dress grew damp from the snow, but Sansa had never felt more at home. The crisp, night air filled her lugs and sent her on a high. Her illness had dissipated totally, and she’d never felt more free. She placed herself gracefully on a nearby stone bench, and threw her head back to take in the frozen sky – when she heard an unnatural rustling behind her. Sansa whipped her porcelain face to her side, desperately trying to uncover the source of the noise. She knew she should summon a guard, or call for her husband, but the child growing in her had a taste for danger, and spurred her on, to investigate. Sansa pushed herself off the bench, and crept, with feline grace, towards the source of the disturbance. Night had already fallen, but the moon was full and its silvery light illuminated her path. She hadn’t ventured far, when she happened upon someone she hadn’t expected to see for the remainder of her days.

“Sansa, you have to come with me. Petyr Baelish is a conniving snake, and an intelligent one at that. I would know. You’re not safe in his company.” 

Tyrion Lannister’s scarred features were emphasised monstrously in the moonlight, and had Sansa never met him, she would have screamed and run – but she knew better. Tyrion had never given her reason not to trust him, so her feet remained cemented to the ground, her blue eyes peering into his. “Explain.” Sansa’s words were harsh and direct, but she did not have the time, or the inclination for pretty courtesies as she’d had in the past. Her freedom gave her power, and Tyrion noted this. His scarred features lifted in amusement, but the air of seriousness did not leave him. “Petyr Baelish was the man who betrayed your father – out of nothing but spite for having married your mother. He was the one who ordered the assassination of Bran while he slept – it was his dagger your mother found. He, of course, convinced your mother that I was the one to blame, hence my brief imprisonment at this god-forsaken place. Imagine – being holed up in these dungeons with your crazy aunt’s shrill voice, and no wine. I like wine, and I do not like when I’m unable to obtain it.” 

Sansa had stopped listening after Tyrion’s revelation about Bran’s assassination. Her heart froze in her chest, and her blood ran like ice in her veins. Her first instinct was to defend Petyr, yet she didn’t quite understand why – despite her instinct, she bit her tongue and her face turned to stone. Her illness had begun to return. Tyrion seemed to take her silence as disbelief – “Sansa, why would I lie? What would I have to gain from starting a war between the two most powerful houses in Westeros? I don’t do well with chaos. I’m already son of the most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms, and I’m a Lannister. How would destabilising the Seven Kingdoms aid my cause?” Tyrion continued speaking – about enemies, and wars, and causes, but Sansa could not absorb his words any further. What he’d said had made sense – the reality of this shook her to her very core, and her strength turned to ash in her mouth. 

“Sansa? Sansa? Hello? You need to come with me now – there’s no time to lose. This damned castle is damn near impenetrable and I really don’t feel like waiting for us to be snowed in. Bronn is good, but I doubt he’s that good.” Bronn’s protests sounded distantly in the background. Sansa’s feet were still glued to the ground. “Tyrion, I can’t. I can’t come with you.” Tyrion’s face twisted in confusion. “Sansa, it’s not safe for you here. Only the gods know what he has planned for you. You may think you have Baelish figured out, but without even hearing your testimony, I can tell you that you’re wrong. It’s imperative that we leave at once.” “Tyrion, I’m with child…”

“With Child?” Petyr’s shocked and angry voice sounded behind Sansa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is a bit of a twist, but I hope you like it anyway!
> 
> Please comment/kudos/bookmark if you enjoyed, and thank you all for your support and feedback! <3


	6. Chapter 6

The icy wind animated wild tendrils of Sansa’s hair, which whipped and stung her cheeks and caught in her dry lips. The silence was the wind, and the wind was the silence. Loud, shrill, agonizing, and alien all at once… And yet, somehow it was still silence though Sansa could not hear her hammering heart, or Petyr’s shaking breath, or Tyrion’s boots shuffling uncomfortably in the crackling snow. Somehow it was still silence. “I would like a moment alone with my wife,” said Petyr, his half-threat, half-request shattering the air around them. Petyr’s teeth were gritted behind his whitened pursed lips, and his jaw muscles clenched rhythmically. He hid his fear well, but knew her husband well enough to know that Tyrion had told her the truth only a few moments ago. Tyrion smirked knowingly and sauntered over to Petyr, looking just a little bit drunk. “What if I were to say ‘no’?” Challenged Tyrion – his voice both dark and alive with mischief. Petyr leaned in a little, his face fixed like stone, and his eyes glowing with a fire of hatred burning behind them – “well, then I expect you and your trespassing guest may find yourself falling a rather great height – now that would be a terribly… sticky situation, wouldn’t you agree?” “Well then,” started Tyrion, “Are you going to take us yourself?” Tyrion still seemed amused, despite the disgusting seriousness of the situation at hand. Sansa had never quite seen Tyrion entirely serious, but she supposed this was probably the least drunk, and most serious he could be – especially with Cersei’s vengeance looming over his head. “I have guards,” replied Petyr, angrily. Tyrion cut him off – “you have idiots, I have Bronn.”

“Oi! You fight for yer own fucking self,” Bronn shouted back from somewhere in the distance.

Tyrion waved him off nonchalantly, and turned his attention from Petyr Baelish, back to Sansa. “With child, you say – well, that is a slight complication, but there are ways to remedy this sticky situation…” He looked at Petyr, echoing his earlier words back at him. “I’ve known enough whores in my short and miserable life to know Moon Tea works quite effectively, provided you aren’t too far along with the child.” 

Petyr’s hand shot furiously to his hilted dagger, and Sansa knew what Petyr was about to do. “Guards!” shouted Sansa, half in desperation, half in exasperation. It was only a moment before seven knights of the Vale came running to her aid, swords in hand – ready to lay down their lives at her feet. “Please escort Lord Tyrion, and his friend in the bushes, into the castle. Call my handmaidens and tell them to ensure these men are given the most comfortable rooms, far away from my own chambers, and a hot meal. They have travelled far, and it is especially cold tonight. You are to treat them with respect, and as my guests. Am I understood?” She spoke the last sentence slowly and dangerously, her voice dropping ever so slightly in pitch. Her words were so low, they might have been lost in the winds of winter, had they not paid such careful attention. The guards grunted an unintelligible response that Sansa assumed meant they had understood. By the look on her face, Tyrion knew not to argue, and so he and Bronn hastily followed the guards inside the castle, looking over their shoulders with concern at her as they trudged into the castle, loudly requesting copious amounts of wine. 

Petyr was still frozen exactly as he had been, with his dagger now drawn, ready to slice the air in front of him, and probably anything else that dared question him. Sansa could practically hear the wheels in his head turning, looking for lies and explanations, and anger began to simmer inside her veins. Without thinking, she placed her hand protectively over her belly as she turned to face her husband. “Let us return to our chambers to discuss,” she said – more at him, than to him. She spoke the words like acid. 

Her mind had been so preoccupied with feelings of anger, resentment and betrayal, that she did not even realise when she had arrived in front of their chamber doors. Still saying nothing, Petyr opened the doors for her, allowing her to enter first. Sansa made for the fire place – the dancing flames gave her something other than her husbands face on which she could fix her eyes. She stood a little too close to the fireplace for comfort. She could feel the warmth being drunk up by the fabric of her dress, slightly burning her shins underneath. Her cheeks were kissed by the warm air, and in contrast – her icy hands were tightly clasped behind the small of her back – her knuckles digging uncomfortably into her spine. Sansa didn’t mind her discomfort – it only fuelled her inner rage, which she was preparing to unleash. 

“Sansa, my love,” –  
“Silence, Lord Baelish. I don’t want to hear what I’m sure was a very well thought out, very clever lie.”  
“I would never lie to you; you know I love you. You and… and our child – “  
“I don’t care for your pretty words about all your love, devotion and the child, either.”  
“Sansa, my wife, allow me the chance to defend myself – I deserve that much, don’t you think?”

Sansa remained silent, turning her head to look over at Petyr. His eyes were wild and desperate, and his brow was deeply furrowed in heavy thought. She lifted her hand and gestured for him to continue.

“The only people I have ever loved, in my entire life, are your mother – and even more so, you. I would have done anything to protect your mother, and I will give my life for you, and for our child, my Sansa.”  
“Again with the pretty words, Lord Baelish. Your words weren’t always so pretty.”  
“What do you – “  
“You think I don’t remember the things you tell me. You think I forget. Allow me to give you some insight, Husband, I never forget. I remember what you said to Aunt Lysa before pushing her through the Moon Door. I remember you telling me about how Joffrey was going to rape me – though your words were never quite so bold, they did not need to be – and as a terrified girl of thirteen, I lay awake every night for months. I watched my door, with a stolen carving knife from the kitchens in King’s Landing under my pillow, waiting for someone to come. Waiting for someone to drag me to Joffrey’s awful chambers. That never happened, Lord Baelish. But allow me to tell you what did happen – what happened was a barely slept, and when I did, every crack of a twig outside awoke me, and I would cry and cry. Because I believed you. You knew everything, after all, why wouldn’t I?”  
“Sansa, I didn’t mean – “  
“I know what you meant. I’m a slow learner, it’s true. But I learn. You wanted me to live in fear, so I would be vulnerable, and afraid, and listen to more of your clever, pretty words. You said those things to me for the same reason you married Aunt Lysa, and the same reason you manipulated her to kill her own husband, my father’s friend. For the same reason you apparently tried to have my brother murdered in his bed, while he slept, and for the same reason you killed off any and all heirs of the Eyrie. For power. Not for loyalty, not for love. For power.” 

Once again, Petyr made a move to speak, edging ever so slightly closer to where Sansa stood. Sansa turned on her heel to face him, raising her palm for him to cease his words.

“I will bear this child, who will inherit the title of Lord, or Lady, of the Vale one day. Believe me, though, Lord Baelish. If you betray me, or my family, again – I will tell the good lords of the Vale about your little squabble with my poor, fragile aunt, who could not defend herself. Then we shall see just how much water your pretty words hold.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comment or Kudos if you want more <3 apologies for any mistakes, this is my first fanfic


End file.
